Laughing Len and Freewheelin' Bob
Reading that exchange between the two writers made me think about the different approaches to their craft. They were both north American Jewish kids in love with words and wanting to forge a living from writing...and I don't think it matters than one wrote primarily poems and novels and the other wrote primarily songs. (Of course it shouldn't be overlooked that Dylan also published a collection of experimental prose poems written in 1964/65.)Cohen went to McGill University and read English Literature, wrote poetry which he performed in the cafes in Montreal and also played in a country music band. After graduating he embarked on an MA but dropped it in favour of trying to make a living as a writer, using inheritance money from his grandmother to relocate to Hydra in Greece in 1960 where the weather was good and the living was cheap.
Dylan enrolled at the University of Minnesota but claims he didn't attend much, got kicked out of English class for using four-letter words and spent most of his time learning to play guitar and getting into the local folk scene. He dropped out of university at the end of his first year and moved to New York City in 1961 intent on becoming a folk musician. The city library and the folkies he met on the circuit of clubs and coffee houses became his real education as a writer.It's true that Cohen used to take a long time to write his poems, novels and songs. He was a patient and studious writer, working at his craft every day, revising, re-shaping, maturing and polishing what he felt he needed to say. He never forced writing out into the world until he felt the work was ready, was as nigh on perfect as it was possible to be. When he said it sometimes took him three years to complete a poem or a song to his satisfaction, he wasn't exaggerating. In fact later in his career he confided that some works took five or ten years to gestate.
Dylan on the other hand was the hare to Cohen's tortoise. Impatient and mercurial and fueled by amphetamines where Cohen made do with retsina, it's true he didn't take long to write songs. It was almost as if he was extemporising in the beat tradition. Songs and poetry came pouring out of him, more inspiration than perspiration. He rarely revised what he wrote and is famous in the recording studio for wanting to do everything in one take then move on quickly to the next song. Admittedly three minutes was a somewhat dubious claim, especially as many of his greatest songs are twice or three times that long just to sing, but the difference between the two is clear, minutes as opposed to years, sparking as opposed to smouldering. Maybe it's a question of temperament, for the way they worked was really at opposite ends of a spectrum
Dylan appears to have enjoyed a facility that Cohen did not have, dare I say it a livelier imagination and a brain operating at a higher voltage, closer to genius, and I think Cohen clearly acknowledged that Dylan was worthy of the citation bestowed by the Nobel committee. Of course, it's not really a competitive undertaking, though egos do come into it. We're lucky to have had both Bob and Len in our lifetimes.
I suspect I'm nearer the Cohen end of the spectrum than the Dylan end in terms of modus operandi. Of course I wouldn't claim to be anywhere near either of them in terms of talent. Nonetheless I have been working towards a first collection of poems over the last few years and it should be here in a couple of months' time.
the cover of my upcoming poetry collection
If you enjoy reading these Saturday blogs and the poetry they contain, From the Imaginarium pulls seventy-five of the best poems together. That's the plug for now. More news when I have it.Bob Dylan, if by any unlikely chance you're reading this blog, excuse me for reproducing one of my favorite Leonard Cohen poems in preference to one of yours. I'm just trying to even things, giving a shout out to K2.
There Are Some MenThere are some menwho should have mountainsto bear their names to time.
Grave-markers are not high enoughor green,and sons go far awayto lose the fisttheir father's hand will always seem.
I had a friend:he lived and died in mighty silenceand with dignity,left no book, son, or lover to mourn.
Nor is this a mourning-songbut only a naming of this mountainon which I walk,fragrant, dark, and softly whiteunder the pale of mist.I name this mountain after him.
Leonard Cohen, 1961
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